Perdition
by crashingthroughtime
Summary: Coda to 13x21 Beat the Devil. Sam's resurrection did not come without consequences.


**AN:** I hammered this thing out in like half an hour and barely edited it so excuse any mistakes. Got inspiration from a coda by samssilkyhair on Tumblr.

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Sam's shoulder is aching.

It's a small thing, and considering the circumstances of the past few hours it really shouldn't be all that big of a deal. Sam is covered in blood – his jeans are stiff with the stuff, the skin around his neck and jaw is pulled taut where it's dry and sticky where his sweat has cleared it away, his fingernails are a filthy red, his hair is crusty and matted – from head to toe. Sam is filthy, and tired, and has been either hiking or fighting for the better part of two days, now.

Sam _died_.

Sam was a chew toy for a whole nest of vamps and didn't survive the encounter. Even for him, it's been a rough one. And so he's finding it difficult to prioritize an aching shoulder, not when he still remembers what it felt like getting his throat ripped out. It's such a small, inconsequential thing in light of it all.

Except. Except.

Except that Sam's throat is no longer ripped out. Sam's neck is smooth, and so is his chest, and arms, and back. Sam may be mentally exhausted but his muscles feel fresh, his blisters and shin splints have vanished, his sore calves and aching knees that were previously protesting an entire day of movement over rocky ground now feel like they could run a marathon.

Sam is in peak physical health, of course he is, because imagining Lucifer's hands on his soul wasn't enough, now he has to imagine them on his body – or corpse, rather – touching and mending and shifting his clothing, rearranging his limbs, maybe smoothing down his hair—

Sam stutters a step and he hears Lucifer pause behind him. The hair on the back of Sam's neck rises and the skin on his arms prickles in a way he is all too familiar with, a way that makes him want to shriek and claw and tear it all off, scratch at it with his fingernails until he reaches the muscle and flesh beneath. He imagines his flesh coming away like jelly, so hot it's dripping off of him like candle wax.

The back of Sam's head is cold. He knows he's being watched.

It's his left shoulder that's aching, something not quite bone-deep and that is irritated when his shirt shifts against it. It's like a burn, maybe, or an old scab that's been picked off. If he were alone, Sam would unbutton his shirt and ease it off, maybe tear off the sleeve and use it as a bandage. If the circumstances were different, Sam would be legitimately curious as to what it was that Lucifer had overlooked or been unable to heal. It couldn't have been deemed unimportant – Sam's hangnails have all been smoothed over. It couldn't have been left intentionally to cripple Sam – his arm is still fully functioning, and besides, it's his left.

However, the circumstances are what they are, and Sam does his best to ignore his aching shoulder. If Lucifer is watching him for a reaction, Sam doesn't know it.

This works up to a point.

Up to the point where Sam enters the settlement and the devil, angel warding having already been destroyed, follows half a step behind.

Up to the point where Lucifer rests a hand on the small of Sam's back and leans up towards his ear, whispers, "They don't look very happy to see me. Aren't you going to say anything, Sammy?"

Up to the point where Dean starts forward suddenly, angrily, and all at once Sam has been pushed to his knees, Lucifer crouching behind him. He snakes an arm around Sam's chest, his right arm, and uses it to pin Sam against him. He places his hand firmly on Sam's left shoulder, and with a sickening lurch in his gut Sam just _knows_. Just like that. There is no shadow of a doubt in his mind exactly what is hidden beneath his shirt, branded onto his skin.

He can practically hear Lucifer's smirk. He tucks his chin on Sam's shoulder and peers around at Dean, Jack, Mary, all of them – the whole settlement, it seems, has come out to watch.

"I really wouldn't," Lucifer says, and he was talking to Dean earlier, too, only now that his mouth is pressed up so close to Sam's ear it's finally impossible to ignore him. "I know you've probably got half a dozen tricks hidden up those canvas sleeves of yours, Dean, but I'm not seeing any all-powerful witches around, and besides"—his left hand is on Sam's waist, rubbing gentle circles—"I come in peace, and all that."

"Like hell," Dean growls, and steadies his pistol.

Lucifer tuts, pulls his head away from Sam presumably so that he can shake it in disappointment. "Now, Dean, don't let that self-righteous bigotry keep you from getting your brother back."

Dean is probably trying to meet his eyes, Sam figures, but he can't bring himself to raise them from the dust at his brother's feet.

"After all, I did come bearing gifts, didn't I?"

He moves his hand from Sam's shoulder just enough to grip the collar of his shirt and Sam can't do this, he can't, not with all these people watching, not with Dean, not when he's practically trembling in fear and with Lucifer pressed up so snugly against him. He needs to be anywhere but here but he's frozen, he can't bring himself to move and Lucifer wouldn't let him even if he tried.

Lucifer doesn't bother unbuttoning his shirt, just digs his fingers into the bloody grime and tears it open, exposing Sam's shoulder and whatever damning evidence lies beneath. It's a relief, almost, when the scar finally hits fresh air. The breeze kicks up and it's cool, lessens the burning sensation.

Sam bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. He does not look.

"You see, it looks to me, Dean, like you and your angel pals didn't do all that great a job of taking care of Sammy, here. So," he shrugs, "I picked up the slack."

Sam's not going to cry, he decides. His stomach feels like it's hanging out somewhere near his toes, and he focuses his attention on how nauseated the feeling makes him.

"You— but—"

"Don't worry, no charge, call it a new leaf. And how about you, Jack? Happy to have your buddy back?"

There is no mistaking the desperation in his voice. Sam wonders if anyone else can tell, or if it's just him. The thought makes him feel even sicker.

Jack, smartly, doesn't respond. Dean, please God let Dean have the archangel blade on him. Please God let him have the common sense to throw it straight through Sam's chest and into Lucifer.

"Let go of him," Dean growls. His voice is cold and full of rage in a way that Sam doesn't think he's ever heard. He shudders involuntarily, and isn't exactly sure why.

A beat goes by, and then Lucifer carefully says, "Sure," and begins to draw away from Sam. He rakes his fingernails over the hand-print as he does, that same enigmatic hand-print that appeared on Dean all those years ago, and whispers in Sam's ear, "But you know I never really will."


End file.
